Changeling

CHANGELING

by Evalyn Broderick

“A bomb shelter is no place for a plant. Space is limited. People only.” The co-op president underscores each declaration with a jab of his ballpoint pen. His polo shirt-clad bulk blocks my way. The building social chair flanks his right side, adding her body to the barricade. 

I glance at the Huangs’ cat before shifting my gaze over to the Lewis kids. They are dragging an oversized aquarium in with them. Others have brought pets too. I can hear them barking and yowling in the increasingly impatient line behind me. “People only, huh?”

“Living things only,” he amends. “Sentient things.”

There’s plenty of space. Access to the lead-lined shelter is restricted to residents of our sixteen-story building, and half the units currently sit empty due to exorbitant maintenance fees and the convoluted tenant application form. We even upgraded the shelter three years ago, after the first bomb dropped, to include a Farady cage and a fully-stocked kitchen. It’s nicer than my apartment down here, the decor resembling the headquarters of some overpriced tech company. Still, the co-op board has had it in for my plant from day one. Creepy, they called it. Unnatural. 

Well, they can choke on their tenant’s agreement for all I care. I raise one eyebrow and tilt my head in the direction of Pastor Rick and the life-sized nativity scene statuettes surrounding him. 

Sentient my ass. 

There follows a series of shocked gasps as people realize that I am indeed ‘going there’ and will not back down despite their glares. My plant will not be left to die out in the acid rain, nuclear fallout, or whatever latest horror our war-mongering government has bestowed upon us. 

If I can call out my boss for holding a mandatory meeting on Yom Kippur then I can take on the co-op plant police. I am not giving up my bat mitzvah plant because it gives the old women on the condo beautification committee the vapors. 

It was an unusual choice for a coming-of-age present, but it had perfectly represented my twelve-year-old self. I wanted something to take care of and love, to prove I was truly a responsible adult. Its silky, dark leaves reminded me of the dancing black letters of the aleph-bet on the scroll from which I read my Torah portion. They had grown over the years, stretching their plump, downy surfaces ever outward, as if seeking nourishment not from the sun, but from the very air that surrounds us. A vortex of swirling foliage embracing the Universe and everyone in it.

I schlepped this plant across the country for grad school and then back again when coastal flooding forced us all inland. Its glistening soil soaked up my tears after my first break up, and again when it sat beside me during my grandmother’s shiva. It has been my constant companion. My solace in hard times. Plants do not ask why I don’t have an ugly sweater for the holiday party. And by “holiday” they do not secretly mean Christmas only. They remind me that the same life force runs through us all, no matter how we worship. That there is always room for growth and that even on the bad days, all I need is a seed of optimism to survive. 

I need that in my life. I’ll be damned if Mr. and Mrs. Clipboard take it away.

The moment drags on until one of them straightens up and smirks. “We are making special dispensations for items of particular importance to the community. The nativity is a beacon of hope in these terrifying times. It will provide comfort to everyone in the wake of this latest destruction.”

Everyone but me. White hot rage sears its way through my body and I grab for my Swiss Army knife. Mrs. Clipboard lets out a blood curdling scream. Pastor Rick moves in to intercept me. The Lewis’s shield their kids’ eyes.

I roll mine. The drama of these people. 

“The plant is medicinal,” I explain as I scratch one juicy stem with the blade. “A natural antibiotic.”

I press my hand against the maroon sap that oozes out, sticky and sweet-smelling. It’s thicker than syrup, like the fruity home-brewed seder wine that gets me drunk every year, no matter how little I imbibe. It wells up in my palm where I accidentally cut myself earlier while putting up storm windows. It stings like salt on a bullet wound, and I’ll be lucky if I don’t get gangrene of the palm, but I can’t see any other way out of this.

I hope nobody here is a botanist.

Forgive me, I think towards my plant as I milk up more of the sap. I don’t want to hurt you, but they’ll kill you if I don’t.

They have the decency to look embarrassed. To avert their eyes. Yet none of them apologizes for accusing of me of being an unhinged murderer out to slash them. 

“That really true?” Pastor Rick breaks the silence. “The plant is medicine?”

“Absolutely,” I lie through my teeth. I have no idea what the genus and species of this plant are. I’ve never been able to find it in an online registry or arboretum catalogue. 

Slowly, grudgingly, they let me through. I find myself an empty cot in the corner of the multi-purpose room, away from the foosball table and the oversized television displaying the news to people sprawled out on leather couches. 

The cot is small but sturdy, surrounded by similar beds that have been discreetly stacked in the back of the room behind paper folding screens, like the decoration committee was embarrassed by them. As if nobody wanted to acknowledge that we are not here for a social gathering and that it is entirely possible we won’t be leaving for a while. 

I curl up around the flower pot to wait out the danger. It’s possible that the sap is hallucinogenic, because I feel the velvety caress of leaves brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. The soft croon of a voice that is not there. 

Thank you my friend, it whispers. Time to rest before we go home.

•••

I wake with a start as prying hands extricate the planter from my grasp. My fingers scrabble for purchase as I refuse to let go. Two people in suits, with slicked-back hair and clinical smiles stare back at me. 

“Why isn’t she letting go?” One of them murmurs. “Why is she awake?”

“No idea. But orders are orders. We need to bring the plant in.”

Orders? I jump up and intercalate myself between the suits and the plant, adrenaline clearing the cobwebs from my eyes. The planter remains safely behind me, out of their grasp.

“You called the feds?” I shriek. “Over a goddamn plant?” 

I look around for the culprit but everyone is fast asleep on the bunched-up cots. As if they’ve been knocked over the head or inhaled too much carbon monoxide. Even the pets are out cold, heads dropped onto paws and tails still as statues. Despite the commotion, not a single snore emerges from the slumbering forms around me, so I turn my anger on the only people awake to hear it. The ones in the tailored suits and letterman cufflinks who appear to be furious about the fact that whatever drug they’ve spread through our ventilation system hasn’t allowed them to assault my plant undetected. 

“You should be ashamed of yourselves. Wasting federal tax payer dollars like this. The condo board hates me but I never thought they’d stoop this low. Typical government bullshit, letting them use you for their personal vendetta.”

One of the suits looks at the other, their mouth working as if chewing a stick of gum. His oddly-shaped ears bob with the motion. “Can she see us?”

“Affirmative.” This one is looking at me the way a scientist examines a rare specimen in the lab. Not good. Not bad. Simply curious. Then he reaches for the holster on his hip.

“I’m unarmed.” I throw my hands up in the air, shielding my leafy friend with my body. If they’re going to shoot first and ask questions later, I want that to be obvious when forensics examines the scene. “I want nothing but to live in peace with my plant.”

“Yeah, she definitely sees us,” the first suit says as the other one seizes my hand instead of his gun. I shiver as his pale fingertips trace a line down the scar on my palm. Velvety soft. 

“You bled here recently?”

I nod mutely and his eyes flick to the wound on the plant behind me, crusted over in purplish sap. “The plant too?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” For some reason it seems important that he knows this fact. Imperative. “They would have killed her otherwise. Please, she’s like family.”

He lets out a low whistle and releases my palm as his partner reaches behind me and plunks the flower pot back into my hands. The leaves twist and dance to give my fingers a hug. A hurricane of leafy love.

Home, says a familiar voice. They will take us to my home. Together. 

It speaks directly into my head, which should freak me out, but instead feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like a soft blanket at the end of a long day. Or a smile between friends. A thing that is made all the better for not needing an explanation.

“They’ve blood bonded.” Suit number two doesn’t look pleased. “Ma’am, that is no ordinary plant.”

“No shit, Captain Obvious.” I retort as I stare into his bottomless eyes. I can see to the end of the world and back in those eyes. “...you’re not the FBI are you?”

“No ma’am. I’m afraid we are not. Plants have a rough start in our neck of the galaxy so we foster them out. Never had a success on Earth before. Normally we’d bring that one back for study and leave you a replacement, but a connection appears to have formed.”

Connection. That’s putting it mildly. My head swims as I think about them snatching my plant while I slept, leaving an imposter in its place. Unacceptable.

“What happens now?”

They shuffle and scratch their heads behind pointy ears that are looking less human by the second. “It’s a bit unprecedented. Terrible waste of resources. We have so few healthy ones these days. Would you be willing to exchange the plant for some of the gold Earth people value so much?”

I grip the planter in white-knuckled fists and look around the room. Everywhere, people sleep on cots. People who don’t invite me to the building potluck because my observance of kashrut makes them uncomfortable. People who would have forced me to give my plant away because they don’t understand its beauty. 

They may be people, but they are not mine and I do not share their values.

Home, the voice insists in my ear. Safe. Warm. Loved. Home. 

I push the hair out of my eyes and stand, cradling the flower pot against my chest. “I’m afraid you misunderstand. I have no intention of holding the plant hostage. I would prefer to go with her. With you.”

Their eyebrows shoot up. I stand my ground, as I’ve stood my ground a thousand times before, until one of them stretches out a hand to embrace me. 

“That can be arranged.”